Moments In Crime

So long for now

Well, it's been a week, and I'm told, time to sign off. It's been interesting for a few reasons, not the least being that I've been traveling to some pretty far-flung spots throughout. I have two events today, but they're both pretty local to where I live, and I have to admit that I feel soothed to be back in New England.

This blogging, however, has been a stand-out. As I pointed out a week ago, I have never blogged before, and I approached the task with some misgivings. Who was out there? What would they want to hear? Would they respond? In that regard, it's been a little like throwing thoughts into a black hole, and then pondering their fate. I am by nature contemplative, and I take my time writing, including blog entries. It has been odd for me to write in a format wherein all matter is electronic and intangible. In a variation on the famous sound-of-the-tree-falling-alone-in-the-forest dilemma, I've had to wonder: have I been largely writing to myself?

I know I haven't been. There were a couple of comments, including one from my daughter (thank you, Elizabeth!) and I've been told that the blogging audience is often mute. But it is a little like being on stage, delivering one-liners to an empty theatre. As a result, the bigger question personally has been, has it been worth it to me—purely selfishly?

The answer there is yes. If for no other reason than it is occasionally helpful to be simply meditative, to let thoughts spill out as they will, to not worry so much about who may be eavesdropping on my mind. I have considered my various topics, written them with some care, edited them several times, and then sent them out—carrier pigeons on the wind. It has been quirky, entertaining, enlightening, and fun.

Thank you all for the opportunity.

A day in the air

Oh-oh. It is 4:30 in the morning, I'm about to get ready to get on a plane out of Houston and start wending my way home—and to an event at Mystery on Main Street in Brattleboro, Vermont, a wonderful, well-stocked, and comfy new store that is working hard to bring our genre to Southeastern Vermont and adjacent states—when I suddenly realized that I may not be able to post a blog unless I do it right now.

I had a terrific evening last night, thanks in part to David Thompson and the great folks at Murder by the Book, at 2342 Bissonnet in Houston, Texas. What a store! Large, stuffed with books and lots of nooks in which to peruse them, and equipped with a well-informed and helpful staff, this place is a bibliophile's dream come true. Unfortunately, and this is purely carping, being the guest of the evening meant that I had to shoot my mouth off for the attentive audience instead of anonymously crawling along the many rows of crowded shelves, scrutinizing titles.

I should be so cursed—instead of buying more books guaranteed to rest on top of the already teetering piles of to-be-read books back home, I had to chat with, and answer the questions of, a truly appreciated group of devotees who sought me out (two of whom even sprang for dinner afterwards. Lord, what a tough life we authors lead!) It was stimulating and thought-provoking and a lot of fun. I have to admit, I am a sucker for these back-and-forth sessions, and despite having done multiple hundreds over the 19 novels I've had published since 1988, I have never tired of them. There have been events where a few hundred people are in attendance, and a very few where I and the organizer have sat side-by-side, sharing the cookies she prepared for the missing hordes (no dinner there,) but none—including the latter—that I would truly consider a bust. For some reason or another, perhaps merely because I'm there anyhow, so what does it matter, I've found myself having a good time and a better conversation. I suppose that, if nothing else, this crazy business has taught me to take things in stride and not sweat the small stuff.

That having been said, I better get ready to hit the road!

The Craft

Today, I figured that I'd goof off a little from writing Gunther Opus #20 (no title yet, of course,) to share my "process," as they call it. I'm still in Texas, by the way, having shared a few laughs with the folks at the Houston Public Library last night, and about to visit the fine folks at Murder By The Book tonight.

In fact, the notion of "craft," struck me yet again when I was sitting in line, waiting to be interviewed by the ever gregarious Joe Donahue, for Albany NY's WAMC, and listening to Dennis Lehane. We were all attending the annual New England Independent Booksellers Assoc trade meeting in Boston, and Joe was hitting as many authors as he could with his digital recorder (well, maybe not literally.) It was a kind of Stephen King setting, actually, since the only quiet spot Joe could locate was an enormous ballroom on the top floor, of which we were the only occupants.

In any case, Dennis was waxing on about how he does his job, which prompted me to kid him afterward that we all sound pretty much the same when it comes to how we do what we do. I don't suppose that this is earth-shattering news, but it does strike me as amusing, and helps explain why I personally don't actively seek out other writers for companionship. It is, in its way, an oddly insular life—remote, solitary, introspective, and quiet. I can hang out all day with other cops, or investigators, or EMS/firefighter types and be endlessly entertained. But they all live in the streets, in the proverbial "here and now," and have a plethora of war stories to swap. Writers... Well, they think... and then they write. Alone. There's only so much that you can say about it. That having been admitted, I do have a few cherished writer friends, whom I appreciate for their wit, their observations, their often sardonic view of the world. Unlike with the guys in uniform, however, we don't talk shop. We do share the humor, insight, and experience of people whose job it is to observe, take notes, and then report on the vagaries of the human animal. On that level, I guess I would say that I enjoy one group for its visceral descriptions of an action-oriented life, and the other for its thoughtful reflections of the same.

Speaking of which, I guess I better get back to work.

The Biz

Back again, writing from Houston this time. I used to live in Texas, as you know by now, but this tended to be a town I mostly avoided. Gigantic sprawl, uninteresting geography. And as many of you know, I do like a sense of geography. The place is looking a little bruised right now, what with the hurricane having knocked it about. Quite a few skyscrapers are missing windows, now boarded up with plywood.

I mentioned yesterday that I'd mention a couple of the things I'm playing with to both keep viable as a published, self-employed author, and to help St Martin's in their efforts to get me a higher level of recognition (an effort I greatly appreciate, let me tell you.)

The first of these is that I have become my own publisher for (so far) the first 12 books of the Joe Gunther series. These went out of print shortly before I parted from Hachette (my previous publisher.) Having early books fade away for a series author like me is hardly new, but I was always convinced that A) the market hadn't been even nearly saturated, and B) that if I was going to truly be a "merchant," then I better have a full complement of merchandize. Hachette was very good about this—they easily reassigned the rights to these titles back to me. Then, all I had to do was to take out a mortgage and some loans, and create AMPress, LLC, which amounts to the publisher of all early Guntheriana. To sweeten the deal slightly, by the way, I'm also offering the very first book—OPEN SEASON—as a book on tape. I don't do the actual reading, but the actor who does is very good. Once again, you can get a copy through a local indie bookstore, or if the spirit moves you. Needless to say, we're all hoping that the reappearance of these books will help sell THE CATCH, and visa-versa.

Another enterprise I'm only flirting with right now is some way to bring Joe to the world of the iPod. I and a small group of advisors/colleagues are meeting with the notion of creating a product that bridges the technology of today with a nostalgic item of my youth, which was in those days called radio drama. As a kid, I used to listen avidly to radio shows like Gunsmoke and The Shadow, which amounted to full-fledged audible plays. Far from being books on tape, the new fangled versions I'm considering would be half-hour episodes, especially written for the occasion, downloadable from the Internet, and fully equipped with music, sound effects, and voiced by multiple actors. Yet another example of how an author can work to broaden his or her fan base by extending the product to other media. Wish me luck!

I better get back to writing Book Twenty, for which I still don't have a title. I really ought to get one of those....

Hi everyone, and greetings from Scottsdale, Arizona, where I'll be appearing at the Poisoned Pen bookstore and seeing my old and cherished pal, Barbara Peters, in a scant few hours. I got up at 3 this morning to get here, and have now discovered that, because of the time change, I'm basically starting my day all over again. Good thing I work comfortably on little sleep.

People often ask me about the ups and downs of touring to publicize a book, but, to be honest, although I do a lot of it, all through the year (and non-stop in the Fall,) I actually enjoy it. I'm not crazy about the driving, I'll admit. I do most of that myself, and will put many thousands of miles on my car in just 12 weeks, which means a ton of down time, just when I want to be writing next year's book (and last year, my engine blew up on the way to a store—not cool.) But that's about my only reservation. I mean, think of it for a moment: writers are a little like actors, displaying their goods for an audience. But where is that audience? And where is the feedback that an actor gets, and benefits from, spontaneously? If writers don't go into the stores to meet those readers, the bridge between the writer's creativity and the reader's imagination—a crucial bond, as I see it—becomes a little strained.

It's not like I couldn't write without feedback; but I do tell stories that are placed in the real world, about the kinds of people I see every day. I therefore want to hear from the residents of that universe. Simple but meaningful. Also, let's be honest—writing is not for sissies, not if you want to actually make a living at it. I've heard that something like 95% of all the authors in the US have an outside primary source of income, making me one of only 5%. It's flattering that I'm in the company as Stephen King as a result, but I can't say that we occupy the same extreme edge of the earnings graph. So, what's a guy to do? Get out there and hustle.

That means touring and blogging and visiting schools and libraries and using the Internet to keep in touch and a passel of assorted other things, including a couple that I'll share with you tomorrow, after I fly into Houston. (Someone suggested that my blogs might be getting a little wordy. Imagine a novelist being wordy?! So, I'm going for quasi-terse this time.)

Till then.

The World According to Joe

I am often asked how I came to write a series of police procedurals—now 19 volumes strong with the publication this week of THE CATCH—all placed in a setting as supposedly bucolic as Vermont. The answer partially lies, as it often does with we quirky, baggage-laden humans, in my past.

I was brought up on the road by a traveling pair of parents, the father of which was a man who once preached to his six kids, “Never quit. Always get fired.” I have no idea if this was reverse psychology (I have yet to be fired from a job, perhaps because I am arguably permanently unemployed, being a writer.) But whatever it was, it meant we journeyed a great deal. Good for learning about people and places; not so great for settling down roots and joining a community.

Thus it was that when I quit my last full time job in 1980 and moved to Vermont, I did so in part to get off the road. Nice try. For the next several years, in order to make ends meet and still call myself a writer, I fell back on my university degree and became a itinerant historian, writing books about families, businesses, and whoever would hire me. Interesting, good training, and it paid the rent. More importantly, it bought me time to write fiction during the off-hours, specifically the first Joe Gunther book, OPEN SEASON.

Curiously, it also allowed me to settle into my home village of Newfane, Vermont, and slowly begin to weave myself into its fabric. That was awkward at first. I joined the local volunteer fire department, and promptly left for many months on a history assignment. But gradually, the segue began to take hold. Over time, histories yielded to mysteries as OPEN SEASON was published in 1988 (and others followed, one per year,) and I began to immerse myself increasingly into the very world I was describing in my novels. In a confusion of life and art stumbling to imitate each other, I became, over time, the captain of my EMS rescue squad, a firefighter, a death investigator for the state's medical examiner, and a part-time cop, thereby trespassing regularly on the territory than Joe Gunther calls his own in the series.

So, I guess—even from the start—I wasn't overly focused on the surface characteristics of Vermont as they're seen, say, in Montana or Texas—all cows and maple sugar and downhill skiing. Rather, I wanted to examine the unheralded side of that picture: the hardships and challenges that don't make the chamber of commerce brochures. I also wanted to make heroes of "regular" people—the Joe Gunthers of the world who eat Velveeta, aren't super athletes or lovers, and make mistakes that will cause people heartache. These are the folks I was increasingly calling my friends and colleagues as I engaged in my moonlighting—who despite their limitations and occasional screw-ups, regularly pull it off in the long run. They bring in the criminals, solve the mysteries, and bring peace to the ailing and the desperate. Like Joe in my books, they muddle through, and by having integrity where they may be lacking in resources or even brains, sometimes, they bring honor and respect to their labors.

Also, to be honest, it makes me feel good to be among such company while at the same time writing about it. I love to write—I love the artistry of laying down a well turned phrase, and the joy of creating a compelling tale. But, having grown up on the road, I also want to finally be of use to my fellow human being, instead of just being the guy who's simply passing through.

For the moment, however, it is all about publicity. As you read this, I am readying to take a plane to Arizona and Texas for a few days—courtesy of St. Martin's—before settling into a 12-week publicity tour of New England. I'll be meeting a lot of readers, new and old, and trying to spread the word of Joe and his world. If you want to keep track of me, get hold of and check out my "Appearances." Maybe we'll get to meet. I'd love to know who's reading all this.

Till tomorrow!

Greetings

Hi there. As I launch into this week of blogging, I am reminded that I wrote my first manuscripts on legal pads, using a pen. That was in 1975. I was working as an editor for the University of Texas Press, restricted to quarters because I'd located a book in some library archive, edited it, and virtually forced it to be published (it was a work of fiction, after all, then considered very tacky by scholarly publishing houses.) Naturally, we all watched it hit the NY Times best seller list and stay there for 6 months. Bad news for me, as it turned out. Not only did that mean that the press made money (tackier still,) but also that the Mother Ship (the university) thought twice about increasing its subsidy the following year, suggesting instead to "send that young editor out there to find another bestseller." Needless to say, THAT didn't happen, and I had a lot of time on my hands, sitting in my office, wondering what to do. That fateful book, by the way, was entitled THE BOOK OF MERLYN, and was intended by its author, T.H. White, to have been the concluding segment of his Arthurian opus, THE ONCE AND FUTURE KING (that is, before its anti-war message was deemed unacceptable by his publishers, then hunkered down in London during the Blitz of World War Two. Talk about poor timing.)

Thank goodness, my misfortune turned out well. I was allowed to hone my fiction writing skills while being paid a living wage, didn't get fired because I wasn't doing what I was paid not to do, and finally arrived at the point where my ego—if not my common sense—encouraged me to quit altogether and become a full time writer. That was in 1980, when I moved to Vermont, my home to this day.

Between that day and this, I wrote history books, travel articles, and, from 1988 onward, 19 Joe Gunther novels, and counting. More relevantly to what I am doing at this very moment in scribbling to all of you, I went from those legal pads to typewriters to the very first cute and clunky Mac to a series of ever more sophisticated laptops, PDAs, and whatnot (You never heard of the "whatnot"? Stay tuned. I'm sure it'll be here soon.)

Codgers like me will often rail against such innovations, and I won't deny having been tempted to wrap my electronics around a tree when they've failed me, but I will also be the first to admit that my writing only improved with the advent of the now ubiquitous computer. It allows me to edit, and edit, and edit, until I truly feel my writing is where I want it to be—elegant, eloquent, rhythmic, and clear. Gone are the days when typing on paper dictated how many drafts I produced, or when the amount of hen scratches on the page screwed up the sentence cadences I was striving for. Gone also, of course, are the excuses I once used to cover my laziness and incompetance.

And so now I blog. To you. For the very first time. Probably going on for too long, and sounding overly professorial. But bear with me. You've only got me for a week. I'll try to hit stride if you allow me a stumble or two to begin with. After that, feel free to give me hell (I assume this is a two-way communication, but I'm a neophyte, and don't really know.)

Tomorrow, I'll share with you a little about my life at the moment, and how I try to blend it with Joe Gunther's only marginally fictional world.

Blogging This Week: Archer Mayor

Blogging this week is ARCHER MAYOR. Mayor, in addition to being a novelist,  is also a death investigator for Vermont’s Chief Medical Examiner, a deputy for the Windham County Sheriff’s Department, and has 25 years experience as a volunteer firefighter and EMT. He is the winner of the NEIBA Award for Best Fiction. He lives in Newfane, Vermont.

Joe Gunther, a policeman for most of his adult life and now the head of the VBI (Vermont Bureau of Investigation) gets the call that every law enforcement person hates and every friend and family member of a policeman fears -- a fellow officer has been killed in the line of duty.  A deputy sheriff was shot to death during a routine traffic stop on a dark country road.  From what can been seen on the cruiser's tape recorder of the killers, it is believed that the killers were a couple of Boston-based drug runners stopped by the deputy on their way from Canada to Boston. 
Gunther and his team are brought in not only to find and bring down the specific killers, but also to infiltrate and shut down the major drug running operations going through Vermont.  Their inquiries lead them to Alan Budney, disaffected son of a lobsterman, now a drug kingpin, who uses the closed, clannish lobster fishing community and his extended family in particular, to move drugs along the New England coast.  In a case that leads them from upstate New York to the coast of Maine, Gunther finds himself facing the most ruthless men in the most dangerous game he's ever had to play.